She had thought that all Morningside Park householders came home before seven at the latest, as her father usually did. “Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest. “How I am to earn enough sous for my dinner to-morrow—or failing that, what I can sell. It isn’t pretty, but we’re made so. ‘But you will not be in a convent. We may meet—who can tell? But I will not be fettered, even though you would make the chains of roses. But this was important.
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